


Companions

by cruisedirector



Category: The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Book/Movie Fusion, Angst, Brotherhood, Fellowship of the Ring, Gondor, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Moria | Khazad-dûm, My First Work in This Fandom, POV Multiple, Romance, Royalty, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-23
Updated: 2009-11-23
Packaged: 2017-10-03 15:27:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,968
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19604
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cruisedirector/pseuds/cruisedirector
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As the Fellowship proceeds toward Mordor, Boromir is tempted by the Ring and Aragorn.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Rising

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first story I wrote in LOTR fandom, after not having read the books since elementary school.

Two days after encountering Saruman's crebain, the Fellowship had strayed from their route around the Misty Mountains to head into the Pass of Caradhras, and Boromir had strayed from his vow to keep his distance from Isildur's heir. Aragorn cleared brush with him, built fires with him, strung bridges of vine with him, hid with him in dank ruins, and defended them all from beasts of the land that only an elf's sensitive ears could hear as they approached. While their trials went on, Boromir was forced to admit that he enjoyed the Ranger's company. It was a particularly thorny confession because he did not want to like Aragorn -- not only for what he represented to Gondor, but for the allure of the man himself.

Boromir recalled his first encounter with the one called Strider, standing before Isildur's mural in Rivendell. Blood drawn by Isildur's father's sword burned down his own finger. For a split second, he had felt as though he were being watched by Isildur himself -- the great hero and great failure, the man seduced by the Ring. Was Isildur's image there to serve as model or warning to Boromir?

He knew not; he knew only the great shock of feeling that surged through him. It continued to do so whenever Isildur's heir smiled at him, with curiosity flickering behind his shadowed eyes. Boromir found it hard not to bask in that gaze, to return it, to begin to burn with it. Already he burned with thoughts of the Ring, a constant murmur throbbing in his head. Sauron's Ring of Power gleamed like the Tower of Ecthelion, as unforgettable as the descendant of the man who had brought the Ring from Mount Doom into their world.

Tempers among the Fellowship began to fray as they climbed into the Pass, for the temperature dropped steadily and their muscles protested the increasingly hostile terrain. Following Gandalf's lead, Aragorn pressed forward without relent. It fell to Boromir to look after the small ones, particularly Merry and Pippin who made no secret of their trouble keeping up. Elrond had resisted allowing these halflings to accompany Frodo and Sam on the journey, but Boromir found their easy humor a pleasant diversion from the grimness of their task. He wondered whether hobbits might be incorruptible by the evil in the Ring, despite their long proximity to it.

To relieve his own tension, he taught the little ones fencing and archery whenever they stopped to rest. Aragorn watched bemusedly, a half-smile turning up his mouth. It reflected his unvoiced awareness that the skills were necessary, but also seemed to contain a winking recognition that Boromir did not offer the lessons for entirely selfless reasons. Boromir wanted to show off for the others -- for Gandalf because the wizard had ignored him in the council, for Legolas because the elf suggested that he owed Aragorn his allegiance, and for Aragorn to impress with his talents as a warrior. And because Boromir savored the feel of the other man's eyes on his body as he moved.

Boromir's turmoil was all the more disturbing because these impulses were not new to him. In the past he had felt similar urges to impress men with his strength and prowess -- shield-brothers of Gondor, usually men under his own command, not the ones over-eager to serve the Steward's son but those who had to be convinced that he had earned his captaincy through deeds rather than birthright. The best warriors and most noble guards did not simply accept him as a peer, but had to be won over with daring and dexterity. Once they were, they often became his most ardent supporters. In truth his most pleasurable memories lay not within the silks and lace of Gondor, but the sweat and exigency of martial campaigns, where the polite expectations of society fell away.

This long journey into the hills often had the routine of a military march. The halflings would fall asleep right after supper, exhausted by the long days of hiking and running from menace. Frodo, in particular, needed the escape of sleep, though his dreams were troubled by the Ring and he often cried out in the night. Gandalf, Aragorn and the others spent the evenings discussing the next day's route or supplies they needed to acquire and reminiscing about past campaigns and crises. Gimli never passed an opportunity to brag about the skills of the dwarves, and Legolas had much of the elves' long history committed to memory. Sometimes they sang as well.

But Aragorn rarely spoke of his own upbringing, and Boromir felt that the others were judging them both, holding them as reflections of their fathers rather than their own men. Sometimes he grew sullen, even angry -- he, who had more right to bear the Ring than any of them, for the good of the race of men who guarded the hidden realms of the elves and dwarves. Then he would retire early and seethe, hunched under a cloak that increasingly could not protect him from the elements, despite its fine fur lining and the leather of his collar.

At such times, Boromir thought he could feel Aragorn's eyes upon his back, but the concern implied condescension that only frustrated him more. Curled within himself against the cold, he heard the Ring calling to him, making promises for the safety and stewardship of Minas Tirith that he craved like a hunger in his body.

On the night before they would traverse the Pass, they slept in a camp dug beneath rocks to avoid the snow, circling a weak fire that could not drive out the chill. Boromir lay within his cloak in the most exposed spot, on the far side of the flames from where the others slept. He could not sleep in such conditions, tossing about in a futile effort to warm his limbs. Long after the others had fallen silent -- the hobbits in a huddle between Gimli and Legolas, obscured under all the blankets -- Aragorn moved around the fire to sit beside him.

"You seem close to freezing," he observed.

No point in denying what his shivering lips already confessed. Yet it was unlike Aragorn to make idle conversation, unless he wished to ridicule Boromir for succumbing to the cold. "Have you a way to warm the mountain?"

"No, but we can warm one another. Come share my blankets."

Boromir felt a surge of feeling in his chest, quickly dismissed as irritation. Aragorn's "blankets" consisted of his cloak and the heavy lining of his tunic. Rangers were in the habit of sleeping on the icy ground, in caves, in mud, wherever they happened to be. But Aragorn's expression held no mockery, and Boromir realized that the other man might envy his own thick cloak. By joining the heat of their bodies, they would both be warmer and stronger on the morrow. He grunted assent, avoiding Aragorn's eyes.

As if to confirm Boromir's suspicions, Aragorn spread his cloak on the ground and lay atop it, waiting for the warrior to share the fine velvet and fur of Minas Tirith that lined his clothing. Though tempted to taunt Aragorn for his deviousness, Boromir restrained the impulse. Aragorn might withdraw his offer in the face of ridicule, and Boromir was very cold. And eager to lie near Aragorn before that overprotective elf or one of the halflings inserted himself under the prince's wing. Again Boromir felt a surge of emotion in his chest, harder to repress, as he lay down beside his rival for Gondor.

Aragorn shifted close, pressing shoulder to shoulder under the heavy cloak. The man's strong, familiar scent engulfed Boromir at the same moment their bodies made contact, and he could not withhold a tremor of reaction to the proximity. At that, the Ranger turned, putting an arm over Boromir's chest to hold him closer in shielding warmth. Without his bracers or mail, piled at his side with his sword and horn so that he might sleep unrestrained, Boromir felt naked and tensed against his body's unwitting betrayal.

"I am making you uncomfortable," his companion observed quietly.

Boromir barked a laugh, too loud for the hush of the others sleeping nearby. "Perhaps you think I have been spoiled in a comfortable bed at Gondor." Thinking of his bed only made him more ill at ease, as his mind brought forth embarrassed memories of girls he had tumbled there, contrasted with memories of other shared blankets under the skies. Since he had been a teenager, women had offered themselves to the son of the Steward -- some in hope of eventual marriage, some out of curiosity or a desire for power. He had no aversion to bedding a willing lady, but none of those affairs had ever equaled the urgency of men facing their doom in battle.

As if he could read minds, Aragorn murmured, "I know of your feats as a warrior. When you lead men into battle, do you deny yourself the comfort of a shared blanket on a night such as this?"

Boromir's head jerked sharply to the side to see whether his companion derided him, but again, Aragorn's expression bore no malice, only curiosity. Their faces were close enough for the steam of one's breath to curl the other's hair. The quick, panting breaths that lifted his chest under Aragorn's arm revealed more than words, yet Boromir dared not speak at first. "This quest is different," he said finally. "And you are not a soldier under my command, but..."

"...Isildur's heir," Aragorn finished for him with a wry smile. "Which makes you uncomfortable, Captain of the White Tower -- do you fear that I covet the throne of Gondor, or resent that I have shunned it?"

"I do not fear you, Ranger," scoffed Boromir with such force that he winced inwardly at his own aggression. In a more subdued tone he continued, "Many matters of this fellowship remain uncertain. The dwarf does not trust the elf, who does not trust me, though he trusts you. The Ringbearer may like you, but he does not trust any of us near the Ring. And you...you do not trust me either."

Without removing the arm warming Boromir's chest, Aragorn raised himself up on an elbow to gaze down. "I trust you to fight bravely. I trust you to defend Gondor with your life." The hand on his chest moved up to Boromir's face, turning his chin up to meet Aragorn's eyes. "I trust you as you trust me."

The artery in Boromir's throat pulsed against the faint pressure of Aragorn's scalding fingers. The bright eyes hovering above him revealed so much yet at the same time too little; Boromir did not know how to interpret the promise there. For an instant, emotion overwhelmed him so that he could not breathe -- the same sentiments he had felt since he first laid eyes on Aragorn, secretly nurtured, now laid bare.

This was no mere fascination, but a passionate allegiance he would give to none but a king. Yet Gondor acknowledged no King, and the son of the Steward wanted to despise this unthroned claimant. It pained him to feel his own weakness -- that he could not despise Aragorn, that he felt drawn to the man, that he wanted to impress him, that he yearned to call him friend, that his loins stirred as he lay captive beneath Aragorn's hand.

With a grunt, Boromir disengaged his eyes and rolled away onto his side, letting the cold ground absorb the flush of his skin. He knew his companion would find him rude, yet the risks of continued familiarity were greater still. Aragorn stiffened in surprise, but after a moment he settled back and squeezed Boromir's shoulder as if in sympathy.

"If you feel no fear, you need feel no shame."

"I do not understand. What shame?" Still Boromir's heart pounded so forcefully that his gut ached, as if he were a very young man going to war for the first time.

"I have spent more of my life among elves than men; the immortals do not share our inhibitions." Soft whiskers tickled Boromir's neck, then he felt Aragorn's lips beneath his ear -- a brief kiss that might have conveyed mere solidarity, yet offered so much more.

How weak Aragorn must think him, lying trembling with his back turned. Boromir managed to ask, "Would you unman me, Ranger?", hoping the other would hear annoyance in his words and the tremor in his voice, rather than the longing that shook him throughout. Yet he felt relief when Aragorn's arm slipped around him once more, cupping his hip, brushing his thigh and finding the evidence of desire his breeches could not hide.

Hotly whispered words filled his ear: "You feel quite like a man to me."

It was too much. In a moment he would fall under Aragorn's spell, and become his to command. With a choked growl, Boromir sought the protection of obstacles. "What of the Lady Arwen?"

"I love the Lady Arwen with all my soul," came the hushed reply. "But she is an immortal, who has lived much longer than I have, in realms ethereal and pure. She knows that I am only a man. I cannot be otherwise. I find myself drawn to those like myself, who struggle with the legacies of our fathers and would die to undo the damage to our realm."

Boromir rolled and for the first time beheld Aragorn in full, vulnerable arousal, with glittering eyes and breath that came too fast. "If you believe it is wrong for us to take comfort where we can, then I am sorry for disturbing you," the earnest face beseeched Boromir's forgiveness. "We travel in the presence of a great evil whose power is felt by all. I know that you have felt it -- I know that the Ring calls to you to take it to Minas Tirith."

"If you find me so weak, Ranger, that I can be seduced by the Ring, what victory would it be to seduce me yourself?" Boromir's voice was harsh and grating.

"This is not a battleground between us, and I do not seek any surrender you would not welcome. We march together against a common foe. We are weaker alone, open to temptation." Pain flickered suddenly across Aragorn's mouth, tightening his lips in the first admission of vulnerability the man had shown since committing to the journey. "Any happiness we find may give us the strength to resist the darkness. Will you share it with me?"

For long moments, the two men lay silent, listening to one another's uneven breathing, contrasted with Gimli's burbling snore and Merry's wheeze on the far side of the crackling fire. Then Boromir took Aragorn's face between his hands and crushed his lips to those of Gondor's rightful king.

He knew in his heart that it was indeed a battleground, and that he had already surrendered. But as Aragorn's hands and mouth summoned feeling back into his frozen flesh and freed him, for a few minutes, from the siren song of the Ring, he knew too that he would have no regrets. And when he allowed his body to offer the devotion he would not permit to pass his lips, when he heard Aragorn's choked cry and long shudder of gratitude, he understood that within this surrender lay a glorious victory.


	2. Depths

The stench of Moria might have wiped entire civilizations from Middle Earth. When the Fellowship had first entered the entrance cave, Legolas had had the uncharacteristically bitter thought that perhaps this was why dwarves stank so, living in an underground of sulphur and unrecycled waste. Then they found the rotting bodies, and he deplored his harsh judgment and vowed to be kinder to Gimli, though Gimli had barely been polite to Legolas since his insistence that no elf would take the Ring without a dwarf as a companion.

Legolas felt fortunate to have learned to control his sensitivities and dampened his responsiveness to scents, a trick Gandalf seemed to have mastered as well. The dwarf and the hobbits either lacked the same awareness of odors or had learned to repress their own reactions. But the humans lacked such control; both Aragorn and Boromir became ill from the fumes.

Now Boromir slept fitfully, limbs twitching and lips murmuring oaths. Finally Aragorn drew a heavy arm around him and lulled him to quiet. Legolas watched them thoughtfully, knowing that he would not sleep himself until they passed through Moria. Gandalf had said it was a four-day journey to the other side, but they had kept a rapid pace -- fast enough to be through by the next day, and they might have emerged even more quickly had the hobbits not been overcome by the need to rest their smaller legs. Considering the condition of the staircases and walkways they traversed, Gandalf had thought it best to let them sleep, though Legolas did not believe any of them could truly relax in the mines.

Aragorn and Boromir had given up all pretense of disdain for one another while high on the mountain. In the mines they lay as close as lovers, though Legolas did not think they had gratified their longings since the night he had woken to the sound of ragged breathing, imperceptible over the sounds of the night and the fire to any without elvish hearing. Worried that one or the other man might have taken ill, Legolas had crept around the fire and witnessed the sinuous rhythmic movements beneath Boromir's cloak.

It had surprised the elf that Aragorn would indulge in private intimacies on a quest such as theirs...particularly with Boromir, who wore his lust for the Ring as nakedly as his attraction to his rightful king. Yet their closeness seemed to calm the younger man. Boromir no longer chafed when the Ranger gave orders nor tried to upstage the others with his sword. Perhaps Aragorn had known it would be for the best. Legolas did not know what promises Aragorn and Arwen had exchanged. He knew it was difficult for the prince to be caught between the worlds of elves and men; it was not the place of an elf to judge him.

Frodo slept as fitfully as Boromir, thrashing and clutching at the Ring near his throat. Beside the hobbit, Gandalf sat deep in meditation, though occasionally he seemed to come to himself and gaze uneasily around their small chamber. It had once been a vault for treasures mined by the dwarves. Aragorn had chosen it as a sleeping hollow so that they could lock out the orcs if necessary, not needing to mention the ease with which the orcs could trap them inside until they rotted. Gimli -- who had scarcely spoken since he discovered the mass slaughter of his kin -- sat grim watch in the doorway.

"If you wish to rest, I will guard the door," Legolas said softly as he approached the dwarf.

"I cannot sleep in my cousins' tomb," Gimli snapped, though his animosity toward elves in general and Legolas in particular had lessened over the course of their journey. "You should rest with the others." He jerked his head in the direction of the two men.

"I believe they would prefer to be alone."

The statement was made without guile, yet brought a quiet guffaw from Gimli. Hearing the dwarf express amusement eased Legolas' concerns for his sorrow, so the elf did not try to remedy the double meaning of his words. "I am certain they would prefer to be alone, but our circumstances have not permitted them much privacy. Perhaps when this miserable journey has ended, they shall find peace together in Gondor."

Again Legolas felt glad to hear hopefulness from Gimli. He started to agree when his sensitive ears registered changes in the breathing of those behind them. Boromir had jolted from sleep, waking Aragorn. The two exchanged sighs and repositioned themselves under the cloak they now shared for comfort more than body heat; the temperature in the caves held constant in the great hall and rose as they neared the mines.

Boromir spoke in a growl. "Even the Ring longs to leave this desolate place."

"Can you hear the call of the Ring even here?"

The hushed whispers carried to Legolas through the dank air. He perceived the rustle as one man brushed the hair from the other's face. It seemed that Gimli, lacking elvish hearing, could not hear them.

"Can you not sense it? In places like this, where evil seeps into the very walls, the Ring grows stronger. It speaks to me now as I speak to you!"

"Then surely you recognize the danger. I know you long to take the Ring to Gondor, to wield it to protect the city. I saw what it cost you to return the Ring to Frodo on the mountain. You know what is at stake, my friend."

"Friend?" The hiss of Boromir's whisper grew louder as he sat up. "Do you not mean your rival? You follow the will of the council to impress Elrond and his daughter. But I march for Gondor! I know what is at stake!"

"Boromir, this anger is not your own. Come back to bed."

"Bed." The warrior snorted the word. "I was more at ease sleeping in the snow. Never have I seen so foul a place as this. Yet Mordor is said to be far worse. How will I defend the Tower of Ecthelion when I am crawling through that wasteland? What will the Ring say to us when we are so close to its home?"

"I will be by your side," Aragorn whispered intently. "We will fight it together..."

"Together! And will that save our quest or damn it? The ring calls to me now, but you -- you are Isildur's kin!"

Legolas twisted his head sharply in Aragorn's direction, but forced himself to turn back to the doorway despite his curiosity. Though Aragorn's response was whispered, it carried across the chamber.

"Do you believe that does not weigh on my heart every hour? I am Isildur's kin, which shaped me long before the Ring came to Rivendell. Do you think I wish only to escape responsibilities, that I do not fear the same weakness flowing through my veins? I too know what is at stake!"

A long silence followed, during which Legolas could hear the two men gulping shallow breaths. As he glanced over at Gimli, he realized the dwarf had fallen asleep, leaning against the pillar by the door. Then Boromir said, "This foul air has addled our minds. You are right. We should try to sleep. My friend."

From the corner of his eye, the elf saw Aragorn hold out his hand to Boromir, who took it. The two men lay back and pulled the heavy cloak up to their heads. Legolas could not diminish his hearing as he could his sense of smell -- nor did he dare, in this underground tomb surrounded by orcs and demons. So he heard the rustle of cloth, the scrape of beard against skin, the sticky wetness of kisses, a long sigh of pleasure and frustration.

"I am sorry," he heard Boromir whisper.

"You owe me no apology."

"I am the son of the Steward of Gondor. It falls to me to carry the burdens of the throne." Legolas heard Boromir sigh painfully. "You may be heir to Isildur's blood, but not, I think, to his failings."

Quiet descended like a shroud as Legolas wondered: would Boromir give up his birthright, the Stewardship of Gondor, to follow Aragorn as his king? Or could he not forgive the man for the long years away, while the warriors of Minas Tirith defended their land and that of the Elves?

At last Aragorn murmured, "Arwen said much the same thing to me."

"Then she is wise. You chose well in choosing her."

"In choosing you also. But I hope your faith is not misplaced."

"Aragorn, I am frightened as well."

"You, who fears neither trolls nor orcs?"

"I fear for the White City."

"That is why we defend Gondor by destroying Sauron's Ring."

After a lull of silence, Legolas glanced behind him. Aragorn and Boromir seemed to have fallen asleep, for their breathing had evened. But a pair of gleaming eyes met the elf's as he looked around. Gandalf was alert, gazing around the circle of sleepers with a sorrowful expression.

"Perhaps Lord Elrond underestimates the strength of men," he murmured.

"Or perhaps merely the strength of Aragorn," replied Legolas.


	3. Shelter

The woods of Lothlórien were thick and fragrant, a canopy of greenery providing respite from the growing dark beyond. Yet Strider felt no peace. Even in silence he could hear the voice of the Lady of the Wood in his head, questioning, warning. Estel, she called him, his childhood name, and Aragorn, son of Arathorn, and sometimes Elessar, the birthright of a king. He felt more comfortable with the name he used as a Ranger.

"Yet hope remains as long as the company is true," Galadriel had said to them, but she had also said that if any strayed, their quest would fail. Strider did not need the ability to read minds to know how close Boromir had come to straying. Worse, when Galadriel had touched their thoughts and discovered Gandalf's fate, he could feel her hunger for the Ring. If the Elf-Queen could be tempted, what hope could a man of Gondor summon against such darkness, even a man as strong and noble in intention as the Captain of the White Tower?

Legolas wore an expression frozen in grief, but Boromir had not truly seemed to mourn for Gandalf, even though he raged at Aragorn for pushing the hobbits to carry on when they were desolate. In the hours after they left Moria, Boromir kept his distance and seemed resentful that the Ranger had assumed the wizard's position of leadership. It marked a sad change from their travels through the forest on the way to Moria. The evening after their first night together, as they hunted game, Boromir had pressed Strider against a tree, panted, "I can wait no longer to taste you," and besieged him with pleasure on the spot.

Most of their subsequent encounters had been similarly rushed yet gloriously intense, away from camp while seeking firewood and food. They continued to share blankets, yet rarely touched one another in the presence of the others. Legolas and Gimli seemed to take if for granted that the men would go together to gather supplies, though Merry and Pippin were hurt that Boromir absented himself from training them. He assured them that they had become brilliant swordsmen in their own right and claimed he needed to work with someone his own size to stay in shape.

After Moria, however, Boromir evaded Strider's concerned outreach, walking with the little ones. Merry and Pippin were glad for his company, but he stayed too near to Frodo, too aware of the hobbit and the deadly prize he carried. Even in Lothlórien, Boromir could not seem to rest. Since they had encountered Galadriel, who stared until he flinched from her gaze, the fire in his eyes had flared dangerously.

Though Strider supposed that he could occupy his friend's attentions for a time, his heart ached with conflicting desires. Was he willing to be merely a diversion for Boromir? If it served the greater good of the Fellowship, was he obligated to do so? Or was it Boromir who might feel used, if he suspected that his would-be prince offered his affections not because of a personal bond but a sense of responsibility?

He would have desired the warrior under any circumstances. He was drawn to Boromir's unflagging energy, his reverence for the line of kings, his loyalty to Gondor, and the ardent smile -- too seldom seen -- that transformed him from earnest soldier to the passionate youth he should have been, had the cares of his life not been so burdensome. Though Boromir had not known Strider's true identity when first they met, the Ranger had always recognized the Steward's son. There had never been a moment for him to evaluate the man as just that, a man, free from the glamour of his name and reputation.

So Strider had begun to fall in love, not just with a shield-brother and fellow warrior, but with a man who symbolized Gondor to the outside world. A man who represented lost home and hearth to its exiled heir.

A man whom he had thought he might have to attack on the mountain, when for a moment he thought Boromir would not return the Ring to the Ringbearer.

That Boromir was in pain was evident to everyone, even Frodo, who tried to keep his distance and protect his burden. Strider knew he needed to reach out to his companion, to try to channel the repressed grief and bitterness before it exploded into anger, though his own strong feelings made him uncharacteristically hesitant. "Take some rest, Boromir," he advised neutrally. "These borders are well protected."

Bleak eyes rose and fell, lost in their own world of suffering. "I shall find no rest here. I heard a voice inside my head. She spoke of my father and the fall of Gondor. She said to me, 'Even now, there is hope left,' but I cannot see it."

Those who lacked hope were most susceptible to the false promises of the Ring. Why would Galadriel say such things to Boromir, when surely she could sense his precarious state? That Boromir would now confide his fears gave Strider little comfort. He might have broken through Boromir's shell of bitterness, perhaps even touched his heart, but he could make no promises of salvation for the man or the world he loved.

From the shards of resentment, Boromir seemed to have come to accept Isildur's heir as his peer if not his ruler. He talked of Minas Tirith as a joint legacy, though took responsibility for its protection as his task alone. "Have you seen it, Aragorn? The White Tower of Ecthelion glimmering like a spike of pearl and silver, its banners caught high in the morning breeze?"

A wave of homesickness washed over Strider, who had never realized he carried such feelings for a city he feared to call his own -- the city he and Boromir shared, suddenly not as competitors but companions. Boromir had spent many years staring at Mount Doom in the distance, accepting along with the presumption of stewardship the responsibility for keeping Middle Earth safe from the forces of Mordor. Did Strider dare to share the other's dream of returning in triumph with him, to stand side by side as the Tower Guard took up the call, "The lords of Gondor have returned!"?

"Come walk with me," he begged. Boromir stared at him, startled away from visions of Ecthelion. He glanced back where Frodo and the others were preparing to sleep, at Legolas who meditated on the elves' sad music, and nodded acquiescence.

Though they had not had time to wash their clothes, they had bathed in the river and eaten a robust meal, so that physically Strider felt more comfortable than he had in weeks. As they walked in silence, he admired anew his companion's broad shoulders and powerful stride, his chiseled features and shining hair. This man would cut a striking figure as a ruling Steward, or as a councillor at the side of a king.

For a heartbeat he humored the fantasy: himself on the throne of Gondor and Boromir at his side, his Captain of the Guard. Would it be unfair of him to add Arwen to the picture, a beneficent and understanding Queen? Arwen had never begrudged her betrothed the need to seek out other mortals, no more than he could resent all the long years of her life before his arrival. He recalled seeing her in Lórien for the first time after their meeting in Rivendell, when she had thought him but a child. She had been visiting her mother's kin when Aragorn came to rest from his travels, and finally she saw him as one she might love. They had plighted troth on the hill that had once been Lothlórien's seat of kings.

To live in Gondor, in peace, among those he loved best, to become the wise and strong protector sought by Denethor's son, to save all his people from the threat of Sauron...was this dream as dangerous as Boromir's hunger for the Ring? The warrior wished to convince him to accompany him home, yet whenever their talk turned to their paths beyond the Argonath, the Ranger became troubled. While Gandalf had been with them, Strider had thought that he might go to Minas Tirith with Boromir to help fight for Gondor. But now he had taken on the leadership of the Fellowship and responsibility for the Ringbearer.

Strider knew he must have sighed aloud, for Boromir turned to him, putting hands on his shoulders. They had walked almost to the river, far from the light of the village in the trees. In the dimness, the warrior's eyes glistened with what might have been the heat of passion or the sheen of tears. They had both been careful to keep their emotions in check during their rushed encounters, channeling whatever passions they felt into their quest, but now he could see that Boromir could no longer hold back; he pulled Strider forward and kissed him without hesitation, all trace of embarrassment gone. The embrace was hungry yet tender, promising not only fulfillment but a lasting bond.

Helplessly Strider responded, wondering when he had let down his guard and what place in his life he could carve for this devoted steward who deserved so much more of a lover than these secret meetings. Boromir would not be the man he was if he put his personal desires ahead of his obligations, and Strider...what right had he, who had exiled himself, to dream of a triumphant homecoming among those he loved?

"What is wrong?" Boromir asked, his voice a rush of thick velvet and churning water. "Is it that you no longer desire me, now that you know what is in my heart?"

Fiercely Strider clasped Boromir to him, not just in desire but also in shame. "You have a noble heart, Boromir," he avowed throatily. "You have never sought to free yourself from the bonds that chain you to Gondor, while I...I have chosen banishment, telling myself that I feared to repeat the failings of my kin. I thought to protect my kingdom but perhaps I have merely abandoned it, and abandoned your father and you. I would not abandon you now, not in battle, nor in this Fellowship...and certainly not tonight, Melindo."

Boromir stood so close in his embrace that Strider could not see his face, yet he could feel the tremor that went through him at the endearment. "Beloved," he whispered, a slight mistranslation of the elvish term, but apparently the meaning had conveyed. Soft, freshly trimmed beard brushed Strider's cheek as Boromir turned to press his lips to Strider's temple. Then, as he stepped back, he caught the Ranger's hand and brought it to his lips, kissing the knuckles. Before Strider could respond, Boromir turned both his head and their joined hands to the side in a fluid gesture that allowed his mouth to slide from the wrist to the palm and over the tips of Strider's fingers.

"My liege."

With a shudder of want, Strider closed the space between them and would have flung his arms around Boromir, but the other's eyes, burning with such intense hunger one moment, suddenly clouded and shifted. The change was barely perceptible yet Strider knew its meaning at once. His chest clutched with private grief even as he forced himself to remain open to Boromir, to keep their connection.

"You hear the Ring again."

With a start, Boromir turned his focus back to the man whose hand he still held. "And the voice of the Elf-Queen, singing of coming darkness. Aragorn, help me. If you go with Frodo to Mount Doom, you will choke on its fumes and burn yourself in its fires. Can you be so certain of the rightful path? We could all go to Minas Tirith. You could persuade Frodo that it would be best to rebuild our strength in Gondor. We would have the support of my armies, all the supplies we would need..."

Fear stabbed at Strider, keen and icy as that which had struck him when he realized Frodo had been wounded by the Nazgûl and when Boromir found the Ring high on the mountain. "You know the Ring is tempting you," he said urgently. "Though you would use it out of a noble desire to save Gondor, you must know that it would use you as it used Isildur. The Ring serves only Sauron; it is his voice you hear. He feeds on your anger and your desires."

Yanking his hand free and disengaging his gaze, Boromir took several steps back, swinging his arm above his head in a sweeping arc. "But what if it speaks truly? What if the race of men were spared? How many of us have given our lives for the elves and the dwarves, for..."

"Boromir!" Strider would have slapped him to return him to his senses, but for the fact that he knew all his grief and rage would propel his hand. He no longer knew whether it was the will of the Ring or his own desperation that fueled his feelings. "I do not know what Galadriel has shown you of the fate of Gondor, but I know that the Ring can only bring about its doom. It must not pass through the White City. See how it holds us now! What will it do to your armies, your councilors -- the men you trust?"

"Then what of us, Ranger?" Boromir's voice had gone very soft, with an edge of menace, yet Strider could hear the pain with which the warrior addressed him. "Do you come to me with affection, or some perverted lust born of the Ring? Is this an alliance, or a ploy to ensure my submission so that when you claim your throne, my men may fall to your weakness? How can I know -- how can you know?"

There they were, the words said aloud, the deadly dream before him. Strider squared his shoulders and faced them. "Galadriel said that hope remained as long as we held true," he affirmed, to reinforce the words for himself as well as Boromir. "My elvish name is Estel, which means 'hope' in her language. I would not betray you, nor the Fellowship, nor Gondor."

As he said the final words, he understood that they were true: he was Aragorn, son of Arathorn, heir not only to Isildur but to Elendil and the line of kings before him. It was time for him to claim that name. As long as he held true to himself and his pledges, the forces of darkness could not defeat him. And he understood as well his ardor for the man before him not as private passion but a vital element of their destiny. "The Ring creates only hatred, Boromir. What I feel for you is love. Sauron has no dominion here."

For a moment Boromir's visage blazed so brightly that Aragorn was unsure whether he would win his battle with the voice of evil inside him. Then the other man fell to his knees, clenching his eyes shut. Aragorn followed him to the ground, reaching to clutch his hands.

"I can no longer trust in my honor," Boromir said in a choked voice.

"Then trust me," Aragorn begged, moving his hands to Boromir's face to force the warrior to look at him. Their gazes locked, and he shook to see the struggle in Boromir's eyes, alternating between love and despair. Finally Boromir closed his lids and kissed him as he had the first time, an embrace that was both conquest and surrender.

No more words were said. Each man gave as he took, clumsily, for their desires outpaced their finesse, but their relief and pleasure were consummate. When it was over, Aragorn lay on the ground with his face pressed into Boromir's chest and wondered that in the midst of such sorrow, he could feel such joy.

But he did not know whether it would be enough to save his beloved in the end.


	4. Passage

Though the ways of men were strange to him, Gimli understood the pain that drove Aragorn through heat and darkness, seeking the halflings whom Boromir had trained and adopted as his charges. The dwarf had known the same suffering in Moria, surrounded by his dead kin -- slain not only by the filth of orcs and trolls, but an evil older than the world they knew.

Gimli had been the last to arrive at Boromir's side after the Horn of Gondor cried out during the battle with the orcs and the Uruk-Hai. The warrior was already near death when he reached the men, so the dwarf learned only later of the confession that explained why the Fellowship had ended. Gimli and Legolas agreed vehemently with Aragorn that Boromir had kept his honor -- the Ring, and none of them, had broken the Fellowship. But Aragorn still marched like a man possessed, and as he hacked away brush, flinging himself over the rocky ground, there were tears on his cheeks.

Legolas followed Aragorn closely, letting the man lead but insisting on using his own senses to scout. From his initial deep distrust, Gimli had come to see the elf as an invaluable member of their band. The sprite had heard the coming of crebain and the curses of Saruman before even Gandalf; he had known something more terrible than Orcs awaited them in Amon Hen. Now he walked barely two steps behind Aragorn, close enough to sense every shift in the man's breathing, to catch him if he stumbled or to fling himself in his path should danger arise.

It was Legolas who had told Gimli in hushed tones of Boromir's final moments, for the elf had heard the voices of the men even before he reached the pierced form of the warrior of Gondor and the prince who clung to him. As darkness clouded the fallen man's eyes, Boromir prophesied the fall of his city, and the world of men, and all of the kingdoms of Middle Earth. But Aragorn had held fast to him and sworn that he would not let the White City fall, nor their people fail.

Gimli wondered whether "our people" referred to the Fellowship or the men of Minas Tirith. When Aragorn declined to follow Frodo, letting the Ring pass beyond their reach, the dwarf expected him to turn toward the city that was his inheritance. Sorrowfully he had mourned their failed quest, for with Frodo past their reach, the Fellowship would seem to have been in vain. Yet Aragorn insisted that they must remain together to rescue Merry and Pippin, heeding the words of the glorious Elf-Queen, who had told them that hope remained while the company held true. Though perhaps his reasons were more selfish; perhaps Aragorn needed to kill more orcs in vengeance for Boromir before he could turn toward his home.

"I would have followed you, my brother...my captain...my king." Gimli weighed Boromir's last words. The man wanted to be remembered as Aragorn's first devoted subject, his next of kin. Strange that there had been no word of love in his farewell, though perhaps for Aragorn this vow meant more. The dwarf knew the warriors had shared a bed when circumstances permitted, but he was unsure how much significance that might hold among men. He had heard other men brag of their conquests with women and murmur in hushed tones of pleasurable battlefield encounters that meant nothing. Dwarves and elves bound themselves throughout the years unless great evil intervened, but it was said of men that their affairs were whimsies, free of responsibility and true passion.

Gimli did not think that it had been so between Aragorn and Boromir, whose commitment to one another grew even as the Ring gnawed at their alliance. They spent much of their time together during the days the Fellowship rested in Lothlórien. Perhaps Aragorn had sensed the need to limit Boromir's proximity to Frodo and the Ring, but the others knew full well that was not the only reason for their closeness. Yet Gimli also knew that Aragorn was promised to the elf who had given him the enchanted necklace he wore, and that if Boromir had become Steward, he would have been expected to take a wife. Did men call such a bond as they shared by the name of love? The dwarf hoped for both their sakes that they had allowed themselves that happiness, even if men were very different indeed.

Aragorn had changed since they passed through Lothlórien, even before he lost his dearest companion and buckled on the bracers bearing the white tree of Gondor. Isildur's descendant had gazed with awe upon the giant statues of his kin, and had taken command at Amon Hen with an assurance that had none of the coarseness of his orders when they collapsed on the rocks outside the mines. When Gimli had warned the others of the dangers that awaited them in Mordor, Aragorn had goaded him, suggesting that he rest and recover his strength, yet the dwarf knew that the teasing was not meant as a challenge. The Ranger seemed to be growing into the idea that he was no longer a wandering hero but the rightful king of Gondor.

It was an issue that could no longer create strife between the onetime Ranger and the presumptive Steward. Gimli had felt more at ease with the latter, for he understood Boromir's quick temper and the formality of his training. Boromir would have made a fine dwarf. The other man, the son of a king, raised among elves, remained more mysterious, his goals more elusive. Though none could doubt his survival skills, his relish for the wild set him apart from the others. He had lived most of his life disconnected from his own society. How ironic that he should now suffer so from the loss of a companion.

Aragorn stopped, fist on a tree, closing his eyes and tilting his head as if he were scenting something in the air. Gimli started to reach for his axe, but Legolas' attention was focused only on the man. "You could not have stopped him," the elf said. "The call of the Ring was too strong."

"Stronger than love, it would seem." Aragorn's reply was almost a whisper, not really directed at Legolas. Then he turned to the others. "I felt it too, you know -- the call of the Ring. It was why I had to let Frodo go."

Gimli had felt the power in the Ring, but he did not think it overwhelmed his judgment the way it did for men. He had wanted to slaughter the orcs of the mines, to commit bloody mayhem, yet the hundreds of bodies of his kin might have driven him to such fervor -- even now, in the absence of the Ring, he felt the same killing fury. It had not stopped him from holding fast to the Fellowship. Perhaps because dwarves were quicker to anger, they also had more strategies for containing their rage.

"You were right to let him go," he told Aragorn, though as usual no one had asked for his opinion.

"Thank you, Master Dwarf." A ghost of a smile played across the Ranger's features.

It had been Gimli's suggestion that they send Boromir down the Anduin, despite his own aversion to water. He half-feared that Aragorn would insist on carrying his companion's body to Minas Tirith for burial otherwise. Legolas had chanted funeral songs in elvish to keep Aragorn distracted while they cleaned up Boromir's body as best they could. Gimli thought the man would want to keep the other's cloak, beneath which they had lain together those cold nights in the mountains, but Aragorn had sent Boromir to the river clad as a noble warrior with all but his bracers. As the boat disappeared from view, he wept again, and said something in elvish that Gimli did not understand but caused Legolas' head to turn sharply.

"He has reached his peace," the elf murmured. An immortal, Legolas must have become used to losing the men he called friends, for he closed his eyes briefly yet did not weep. Then he pushed the last boat into the water, but Aragorn had made up his mind not to follow Frodo, and led them into the trees to pursue Merry and Pippin. Gimli remembered the young hobbits wrestling Boromir to the ground after a fencing lesson, the group falling into laughter that had made even the weary Ranger smile. He was right to lead them after the small ones, no matter what might be happening elsewhere in their kingdoms.

Gimli knew what lay ahead for them: if they took the road to Mordor, they faced rocks sharp as blades and marshlands full of fire, and if they turned toward Minas Tirith, the crumbling empire might summon them all to war. If he went home now, Aragorn would bind himself to Gondor -- in the name of his father and of Boromir, who had forfeited his life for their land. The heir of Isildur was ever more ready to become a king, now he knew what it meant to lose men under his command.

And if they survived, if the Fellowship succeeded, if the Ring was destroyed and the war won, Moria would have to be retaken and restored. There would be urgent need for the mines, for mithril and weapons, and the hall would need a dwarf lord. Gimli had trained as a warrior, using his heightened senses to defend his people rather than laboring as a craftsman or an overseer in the mines. But perhaps it would fall to him to rebuild Balin's great chambers, to close off the demolished holes in the earth and open new channels through the rock, to carve new chimneys, create new feasts, brew fresh beer.

Though he came from one of the noble houses of Erebor, it had been long since Gimli imagined himself marrying, settling down and working within the Lonely Mountain, though were he to meet a woman like Galadriel...a outrageous thought, yet perhaps that destiny yet awaited him. His father had been one of the companions of Thorin Oakenshield, and was now an important and rich dwarf well-loved by the King under the Mountain. As the son of Glóin, he had represented his family on many journeys within the mountains, and his wanderlust had grown far beyond that of most dwarves, who were content to live for years at a time in the great caverns.

It would be strange to return to the halls of the dwarves now, after spending so much time among elves and men. Glóin and his son had been chosen for the delegation in Rivendell because they were considered among the strongest advocates for their people, but now Gimli knew that elves and men had their own gifts. Elrond had told them that this great age of elves and dwarves might soon approach its end. How could any hold fast to old injustices now that darkness covered the land and all the peoples of Middle Earth might share the same fate?

Gimli's ties to his kin had not lessened. The loss of Balin and his family burned like a fresh wound. He blinked, shook his head to clear it, and found himself face to face with Aragorn, who had stopped and retraced his steps to check on his companion's progress.

"Are you well, sir?" the Ranger inquired.

Gimli harrumphed to signify the preposterousness of the question. But he saw understanding flash across the man's face, and realized that although Aragorn faced much the same uncertain future as himself, the other would have to move forward mourning not only long-lost family, but the beloved friend who had until so recently marched at their sides. He reached out to this unlikely brother.

"I have heard it sung in an old ballad that the dead we love never really leave us," Gimli said. He felt awkward in the role of comforter but felt keenly the man's need. "Our companions go to the Halls of Mandos, the Undying Lands, yet their spirits remain with us still. I know my cousin was with us in the mines. And Boromir still aids our quest. He would defend Merry and Pippin, and he would stand at your side, Aragorn."

"I will never stop regretting that I cannot see him there."

The rightful king of Gondor closed his eyes and bowed his head. Legolas stepped close to his right hand, Gimli to his left, and their hands linked together in a chain of fellowship. Aragorn swallowed before continuing. "I am glad to have you both as my companions on this quest. The Ring is the enemy of all trust, all friendship, all truth. Would that Boromir could have understood before it was too late. If we hold to each other, we cannot fail."

"We will not fail," Legolas agreed quietly.

"We shall not fail," Gimli declared.

The three bowed heads over their clasped hands. Then they raised them and turned back to their trail.

"May it be," said Aragorn, and their little number strode forth into the future.


End file.
